Thread: Write something that makes me cry

Here is a writing challenge, not for those of the faint of heart--or tear ducts, granted.

Write something that will make me cry.

I do not often cry at literature, but it has been known to happen. Thus, using our clever deduction skills, only very powerful pieces actually make me cry.

I am female, so, *stereotypically speaking, that should make it easier.

Here are some examples of things I have cried at, if it helps:

The Notebook [movie] (hasn't everyone?)
The Perks of being a Wallflower, Stephen Chobsky
Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury
Konstantine-Something Corporate
Tuesdays with Morrie, Mitch Albom
Lesson Learned- Ray Lamontagne

You peoples have my word, I'll be 100% honest.

Get writing.

*-Ugh, don't get on my back about this...

Ok me will give it a shot.... Not sure if this will make you cry but I can try


I can remember, I was only eight when it happened. I was at home with a babysitter when there was a loud thumping knock on the door. I had rushed to the door, opening it only to find a large figure in a black suit standing on my porch. He had told me something I didn't want to believe. He tried to take me away, but when I insisted on waiting for my parents he waited. They never came home.
After that, the next two years passed in a blur, but I do remember one thing clearly. It was two years after my parents had died, I still believed they would come and collect me; I was foolish. The lady who owned the orphanage, Mary, had always told me when I was blue that there was a silver lining to everyone's life and every time she told me this I would run off into a corner and sulk muttering under my breath,
" Who would want to adopt me? I'm not cute, or smart, I have no special talents."
One day while I was in the corner sulking a girl, who looked about my age came and sat down next to me. With a huge grin on her face she cheerfully said,
" My name is Jane, what's yours?"
" My name is Emily," I replied still sobbing. Jane helped me get to me feet, and then dried my eyes. When I had looked like I hadn't been crying anymore she said,
"You can be my friend if you like, I come here regularly with my parents when they drop off food."
Now that I had cheered up a bit I replied, " I would love to be your friend Jane."
That was the start of our beautiful friendship. Jane came to visit every second day, and when we were together, anyone who didn't know us could have mistaken us for sisters.
If she wanted to play dolls, we would, and if I wanted to dress up we would move onto that. When she had to leave she would always say,
" I'll be back, um, the day after tomorrow." This had always made me laugh because she could never remember what day it was.
As time went on Jane's visit became less regular because she was busy with her friends around her neighborhood, little did I know Jane was secretly begging her parents to come in and adopt me.
One summer's day when I was eleven, I remember Jane emerging from a mountain of children with a gigantic smile on spread across her face. When she reached me she didn't say a word, but she grabbed me by the arm and started dragging me off in the direction of the adoption office.
" It couldn't be?" I had thought to myself. It was. Jane had managed to persuade her parents to adopt me. After they had filled out all the paper work, we went to an ice-cream parlor for an ice cream. While licking away at her ice cream, she decided we should plant some plants in celebration of my adoption. So, on the way to my new home we stopped at a garden store where Jane and I got to pick a packet of seeds to plant. I chose a packet of roses; Jane chose a packet of gardenias. We watched and waited, and waited and watched for our flowers to bloom.
One morning Jane and I had come out early in the morning to water our beloved flowers. While we were filling up our watering cans, the leaves on my flower started to slowly uncurl, as did Jane's gardenias. We dropped our watering cans and ran over to our flowers to watch the rest of this natural wonder happen. Jane's gardenias were the most majestic I had ever seen. As for my roses, there were delicate silver rims placed on each petal. My mind wandered back to what Mary had told me, "Everyone's life has a silver lining." In my mind I knew it was true my roses, and my new family were mine.



The end

She’s staring into dark muddy eyes.

They stare back.

She sees dark tendrils of hair, not a strand out of place. She sees a grimace tugging at the lips, jaw muscles twitching. She sees a drawn, weary face.

Her hand lashes out. She can’t bear to stare at it any longer; she can’t take it. But her hand hits glass and now its bleeding, a dark crimson path snaking down her arm.

‘Cause it’s a mirror, you see. And she’s looking at herself. But she doesn’t like what she sees ‘cause it’s got to be perfect. It’s all got to be perfect.

She stares at the blood.

It’s tracing a pattern across her white flesh, and she can’t tear her eyes away. It’s beautiful and pure, disturbing, yet completely and utterly transfixing.

But something’s tugging at the back of her mind. She knows something’s wrong, knows something terrifying.

She can’t feel the pain.

The pain in her hand, I mean, because the pain in her heart is a constant burgeoning presence, utterly incontrovertible. But there’s no pain in her hand, and perhaps this strikes you as annoyingly irrelevant, perhaps this seems like nothing more than a petty concern, but it frightens her to the very bone ‘cause now she knows.

She knows that she wants it.

There’s an unquenchable desire to feel sweet, sweet pain, and it’s transcending every reasonable thought she ever had. All she knows is that she wants it, wants desperately to feel the ragged edges of the broken glass cutting into her skin, needs it.

And she doesn’t know what scares her more: this all-consuming desire or her willingness to bend to it.

---

A gasp.

Wait for it…. wait for it…. wait for the shock to register, ‘cause you know it’s coming.

…one…two…thr-

“What have you done to your hand, Jenny!”

It’s not a question. She knows this too, ‘cause it’s cold raw horror that predominates in her mother’s eyes.

But she merely shrugs and looks away.

“An accident.”

---

They say she’s the smartest girl in town. Her heart swells when they say it, ‘cause that means she’s the best, right?

She’s got straight A’s across the board- no, A+’s. She studies and works hard so that no one but her wins; she’s fighting for her life here, don’t you see? ‘Cause this is all she’s got, this is what she is. And there’s no room for losers.

She buries herself beneath a pile of pretty little smiles that she flashes for the world. It’s a lie, yeah, but the truth is so much uglier. It’s easier this way, and she’s almost started believing herself too. Almost.

But secretly she knows this isn’t her, and she just wants to cry and scream and curse the world for not seeing this as it really is. ‘Cause she’s masquerading for the world and no one realizes it. Maybe they all have masks on too?

And she wonders, wonders so desperately, how long she’ll be able to keep this up.

She was never a strong person.

---

Last night she dreamt she was free.

Arms spread wide like wings, she flew away; up and up she went, leaving the rest of the world behind. And she had felt so light- like air- like nothing could stop her. Soaring, soaring, the wind in her face, in her hair, in her mouth…

It had tasted like freedom.

---

She’s blind- so despairingly blind to the world. All that she remains is an empty shell, a whisper of the past, but she’s so goddamn blind she doesn’t see it. So she keeps pushing and pushing, demanding more of herself.

Oh, Jenny, when’s it ever gonna be enough for you?

But it doesn’t really matter any more; not really. She’s already exceeded her limit, and now it’s just a matter of when she’ll break, not if.

---

She likes to tell herself that everything’s fine, that nothing’s wrong.

Yeah, right.

Sitting on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, she listens to the rest of the world go by. If she could only look in a mirror then she would know that her eyes are blank. Dead. But the mirrors are shattered, broken by an angry fist so very long ago.

(They must have gotten smashed by accident, Ma, I swear.)

Her hands shake.

I’m perfect, she whispers- no, convinces herself. This is what she is, who she is.

She presses the blade against her wrist.

It’s just a light touch at first. She’s a bit reprehensive, you see, ‘cause she’s never done this before. But she has to see, has to know if she can still feel.

She starts pressing harder and harder, and the blade’s cool, oh so cool against her burning skin.

The blood bubbles up.

It starts to spill forward, staining her skin like paint on an empty canvas. And the stark contrast of it against her pale arm is beautiful, so terribly beautiful.

It haunts her.

She squeezes her eyes shut, but she can’t run from it; it’s still there, the dark red dancing tantalizingly against the back of her eyelids. For a moment that is all there is: her and the red, nothing else. It’s the dark, dark beauty of it that’s drawing her in, entrancing, until finally, with the last grips of premonitions sliding free, she surrenders herself to it.

I can feel, I can feel, I can feel, she murmurs, letting the velvet folds of burning crimson envelop her. This is it, the moment she’s been living for. And her heart’s beating, palms tingling, ‘cause this is the part where the pain washes over her, coursing through her blood like a bad metaphor…

Except it never comes.

---

“All I’m saying is that those wristbands don’t suit you.”

“Just shut it, Ma, I’ll wear what I want!”

---

It becomes a habit, another secret to bury deep inside of her. ‘Cause that’s what she’s filled with: secrets. And she can’t stop herself anymore; she just wants to feel, and the burden of it is weighing down upon her.

But now her world’s crashing down, down, down, and her life’s unraveling right before her eyes.

She doesn’t see it.

Goddammit, Jenny, open your eyes!

And here’s another secret (one more to add to your collection): She’s started smoking pot.

‘Cause that always makes everything better, right? Getting high and forgetting, just forgetting, seems so easy, so tempting. So she starts talking to that guy. You know, the one that sits at the very back of the room, separated from the rest of the class. (And it’s ironic, so very ironic how alike they are. ‘Cause she’s pushing everyone away from her, barricading the world from ever reaching her. She’s gonna end up like that guy, you know, all alone... but shh, don’t tell her.)

It’s a hot summer day when they’re at the parking lot. There’s a secret exchange of hands, flashes of greenbacks and a little plastic baggie. A few quiet whispers of when can we meet again?

Her life won’t be the same again.

Oh. My. God.

Winner.

That is... *kleenex* spectacular.


I love you. You are... great.

Thank you! =]

Here's a poem about my grandfather:

Papa

I wanted to write a poem about you,
but all that came out
was a page of cliches
about death

and greatness.

I failed as a poet.

Failed to realize
there are some things
which can't be written,

can't be expressed. Some pains
that language doesn't know,
that maybe
haven't been given a name
because we can't understand them, or because

we fear them.

So I stopped writing.

Instead I stood outside
in the cold
and screamed at God
while my fingers got numb.

I thought of you,
mocked by your oxygen tank,
forced to breathe from a little yellow cylinder,

and I screamed again

and again

and again.

Wordless, hopeless screams
dissipated in the air
like the breath-steam leaving my mouth,

like the oxygen leaving your tank,

like the tears leaving the eyes
of everyone who ever loved you,

and I didn't have to wonder
what it's like
when a great man dies.

I was clacking away at the keyboard one spring morning when I was startled by a resounding “Whump!” against the large window to my left. I rose from my chair and looked out. I saw a small bird lying on its back on the deck outside my window. I went outside and knelt to examine it. It was a sparrow, a hen. She was spasming. Hoping she was only stunned, I picked her up in my hands, prepared to take her to a local wildlife refuge for treatment if necessary. The little bird’s spasms turned out to be death throes, however, and she died in my cupped hands. I felt the life leave her after a final spasm. I sat there on the deck for a long time, just holding her tiny lifeless body. I was the only living being present to note this creature’s passing. Otherwise, she would have died unnoticed and unmourned. I dug a small grave and placed her in it. I gave her feathers a final stroke with my fingers and told her that she had flown and sung well. Then I gently covered her with a blanket of earth.

My mother died when I was born. Dad said it should've been me who died. There's still time to grant his wish.

I could easily write something to make you cry, but why would I do that? Make you laugh, is better! And harder to do.

I think Jolly nailed this one. You nailed my pain and frustration about never succeeding to write a poem about my grandmothers death. Like you express - what are the adequate words? And if you, the word-maker extraordinaire, can't do it I never will.

Muna was a beautiful, young, Iraqi woman. The energetic type of person who can always make you laugh, the type who's smile lights you up inside. Needless to say, her early marriage at twenty years was not surprising. Her husband was nearly as handsome and happy as Muna. They made a perfect match- the beauty of their marriage was so incredibly perfect, it seemed like a television show. The two shared an adorable baby girl together and they were the perfect family.

When the baby girl was a year and half, trouble began to brew in Iraq. Muna's husband, summoned to fight in the military, feared for the life of his beautiful wife and daughter, and sent them to Falluja to live with Muna's parents and three younger brothers. At this time, about four years ago, the Iraqi civilians still trusted the Americans, and believed that they were there to rid Iraq of Suddaam's terrible regime. So naturally, the Americans were seen as their friends.

One day, Muna was sitting with her family in their home in Falluja, when they heard the sounds of American jets fly over their home. Excited, the family rushed outside to wave at the American jets. The next thing Muna remembers is waking up in a local hospital with her lamenting husband standing over her. It turns out their American "friends" had fired a missle at Muna's home.
Her entire family was killed.
Her mother, father, younger brothers, and infant daughter- all slain for no reason.

Though Muna survived, she was left with over twenty pieces of shrapnel in her body, three pieces of which were in her brain. The doctors were able to remove most of the shrapnel, through one piece remains lodged in her brain. As a result, she is partially, and on occasion, fully paralyzed on the left side of her body. She also suffers epilectic seizures. With help from medications she can only occasionally gain access to, Muna is able to walk with a walker.

The damage done by the missle strained the marriage between Muna and her husband. Eventually, they divorced. Muna was forced to relocate to Amman, Jordan for safety reasons. She now lives in a basement apartment with no heat or air conditioning. During the winter the cold becomes so intense that, combined with her seizures, the acute pain forces her to scream out into the night so loudly that the neighborhood children nicknamed her 'The Beast.' Children can be quite cruel at times.

*********
The truly depressing part of this story is that it is entirely true. Muna is still alive today, living paralyzed and alone in her basement apartment.